


can't keep them under the surface

by firxga (psybexm)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Regret, Trans Reno (Compilation of FFVII), aerith and cloud are only mentioned briefly, i never played the remake, the ship is only slightly implied rlly but shhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psybexm/pseuds/firxga
Summary: A Turk is paid to follow orders, not ask questions about them.(Or, the Turks have some feelings about the Sector 7 plate drop.)
Relationships: Reno/Rude/Tseng (Compilation of FFVII)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	can't keep them under the surface

**Author's Note:**

> hi I just got into ffvii and I love rufus and the turks thank you. this is the first time I've written Anything for ffvii so please excuse any potential mischaracterization etc. dfsdhfgdfd
> 
> title is from "Trouble's Coming" by Royal Blood

A Turk, even after missions with the most severe of consequences for Midgar’s citizens, should not feel guilt. This is something, in theory, that one Rudolfo Guerra knows.

He trudges back to their office with his partner slung over his shoulders like a sack of bricks, his own body groaning in protest after the nasty crash he had endured. ( _All for the sake of Reno, who is still largely unresponsive, hanging from his shoulders like a pound of lead._ )

Tseng does not ask questions when Rude shoves the office door open with his forearm, laying Reno down on a couch and barking for someone to get a first-aid kit. He has likely seen the plate drop from an outsider’s perspective, nestled safely in this very office after procuring the Ancient. ( _Leave the dirty work to the expendable ones, the ones that can be replaced quickly enough. There is likely another Rude to be found in Wall Market’s coliseum, another Reno to be found jumping around the rooftops of Sector 5’s slums. There is not another Tseng. They all know that much, especially when relations with Wutai are the way they are currently._ )

Reno winces away from his touch as he applies disinfectant to a particularly nasty cut on his cheek, weakly swatting at Rude’s hands. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles, “you just _had_ to crash the damn thing right on top of me, partner?”

“Sorry.” For what is hardly the first time, Rude curses his own lack of social ability. That entire stunt deserves far more than a simple “sorry,” and they both know it, they both know how easily it could have been _their_ bodies pulled from wreckage. But Reno doesn’t press it. Perhaps he will later, when they’re allowed a moment to themselves, but for once, he shuts his mouth, gazing somewhere far off as he scratches at a cut on his collarbone.

“This is _such_ bullshit,” Reno whines. Rude has long since lost count of how many times his partner has said it over the course of the past few days, “how many people, Rude? _How many?_ ”

Rude doesn’t answer, thankful for his sunglasses hiding his eyes away from more prying. ( _ ~~“There’s a reason eyes are called the windows to the soul,” he is told one day, still a little bit round in the cheeks and just barely suppressing hot tears that brim at the corners of his eyes, “you can’t let ‘em see what you’re feeling when you’re kickin’ the shit outta them.”~~_ )

“Fuck it,” Reno says, resigned, and only then does Rude realize he’s wandered into a place he’s long since tried burying, “they’ll have numbers in a couple days. Fuckin’ _cheap-ass play…_ ”

His throat catches on his words, hands clenched tightly together ( _his knuckles, bruised as they are, still likely go white underneath his gloves_ ). The only sounds in the office are Tseng’s pen, scratching against paper, Reno’s quiet breathing, a small complaint as Rude presses a bandage to the large cut on his cheek.

_“Rude’s not a bad person,” Aerith says to that ex-SOLDIER. He had agreed, at the time._

He has to wonder if she would still say that now.

* * *

As a Turk, he is a consummate professional. Under most circumstances, this is something that Moreno Battaglia knows well.

His entire body aches like he’s been hit by a truck—a _helicopter,_ rather—and oh, how he simply wishes he could come crawling back to his mother’s worn-down little home in Sector 5’s slums and collapse into her arms, let her fuss over him like he’s still a little kid, chastise him for not brushing through his hair properly, force him into bed at a reasonable hour.

( _But his father still thinks he has a little girl. He couldn’t reasonably come back, even if he were to drag himself there, wounds and all. Even with the promise of seeing his mother._ )

Rude is barely responsive to him at all, expression hidden behind those _fucking glasses,_ but Reno knows by now that his partner feels the same way about their latest ~~stunt~~ ~~crime~~ _job._ Consummate professionalism means following your orders _perfectly,_ of course, and yet…

( _He picks up Rude’s sunglasses, and has to choke down the urge to scream and wail as though the entire world itself is ending. How dare they? How dare they take him away—_ )

He fumbles for Rude’s hand, almost still in just a bit of disbelief that they’re both _alive,_ only for his hand to meet thin air. Despite himself, panic wedges itself into his chest, only quelled as he turns his head to see that Rude has since seated himself at a chair around the table that’s _far_ too long for just them. ( _ ~~There had been more of them, once upon a time, but then everything had went wrong, and then, and then, and then—~~_ )

Tseng is talking, Reno realizes, and if he had the strength to, he’d probably be launching himself out of his position laid-down to ensure Tseng catches some _well-deserved_ holy hell. Reasonably, of course, he knows by now that Tseng is simply trying to rationalize the plate drop as best he can, trying to make excuses that make it seem almost like a _forgivable_ offence, but that doesn’t mean Reno can’t want to punch his teeth in as he mentions _necessary sacrifices,_ despite the obvious guilt that displays itself as tightly-knit brows and a deep-set frown.

“Do you actually believe that?” Rude asks, and Reno already knows the answer, before Tseng even opens his mouth. They _all_ had their reservations about this job, of course, but as Turks, they’re expected to work without questions.

“Does it matter?” Tseng replies, curt and leaving no room for further questions. He knows enough about Tseng by now to know that’s an obvious “no,” but he stays quiet, wallowing like a child in his own guilt, picking at the edge of a bandage on his hand. He could almost laugh, this entire situation seems so entirely out of this world.

_“Guess it’s a little late to grow a conscience,” he sighs, defeatedly, from his seat in the helicopter._

Letting guilt churn in his stomach, he can only huff like a defeated child.

* * *

When you lead a group like the Turks, you learn to close yourself off. When he took over, this was something that Tseng Xiao engrained deeply into his own mind.

Reno and Rude come back looking like hell, and he does not ask any questions, figuring any answers given would only make the situation worse. He remains seated at his desk, not looking up from his small mountain of paperwork, even as he feels Rude’s glare bore into him. He knows they feel guilty, but he forces himself not to press it.

He pretends not to hear as Reno and Rude speak, keeping his eyes masterfully trained to the desk in front of him. If he is lucky, this will be the end of his night, and he can return to his own home to let his own regret eat him alive in solitude, can curl up under his sheets and try his damndest to fall asleep without melatonin.

Unfortunately, Tseng has never considered himself particularly lucky.

He tries his best to rationalize the situation to his colleagues ~~and to himself~~ , but he can tell just from the looks on their faces that it doesn’t work as he’d hoped it would. They’ve all known each other long enough to know when the others are lying, but Tseng still hopes in vain for just a moment that they don’t see through his stony facade.

“Do you actually believe that?” Rude asks him, and he almost hides his face in his hands right then and there. Of course he doesn’t, he knows damn well Rude has seen straight through him—and yet he still asks, because of course he does, because nothing can ever be _easy_ when you’re a Turk.

“Does it matter?” he responds, perhaps with just an edge of a sneer, perhaps just a bit snappier than he had intended. Regardless, the room falls almost oppressively silent, and Tseng almost wishes for just a moment that they had continued to press him. ( _Though perhaps that will come later, when the three of them are well and truly alone, when there is nobody but themselves to witness._ )

The phone on his desk rings, and he rushes to answer it, if only to break the silence that hangs far too heavy in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rude lean back in his chair, arms crossed, can see Reno’s body tense with stress.

“I need you three,” Rufus’ voice interrupts his thoughts, “my old man is gone. It’s _finally_ time.”

He’s almost shocked at Rufus’ nonchalance, but reminds himself that he’s wanted his father gone for _years_ now. So he nods, feigns indifference. “Yes. Understood.”

He leans back in his chair, almost wants to ignore the order given to him by Rufus—he knows well that none of them are truly up to doing _more_ work tonight, but an order is an order, regardless of how they feel. Tonight has demonstrated that exceptionally well. “The VP needs us.”

_“You led us on a merry chase, Aerith,” he says to her, eyes catching on the little girl she hides behind her. She looks so much like her mother did, it almost hurts._

He knows by now that AVALANCHE has infiltrated the building to come after Aerith, but he has yet to do anything about it; he has not been told to. After all, a Turk is paid to follow orders, not ask questions about them.

**Author's Note:**

> man. sucks to be a turk huh.
> 
> if you enjoyed this, please feel free to follow me on tumblr @trainerpeony ! thank you so much for reading!


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